


Of Dead Brothers, Beaches, and Bruce Springsteen

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Endverse, Fluff and Angst, M/M, dean and cas want to go to the beach, hurt and healing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 07:32:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3126224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a cold night, February- ish. A few months after Sam died: long enough for Dean to begin to operate in a normal basis. Not long enough to do so on a necessarily sober basis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Dead Brothers, Beaches, and Bruce Springsteen

It was a cold night, February- ish. A few months after Sam died: long enough for Dean to begin to operate in a normal basis. Not long enough to do so on a necessarily sober basis. 

The time has passed sluggishly, because after Lucifer had gotten what he’d wanted, after the angels had packed up shop and hightailed it, everyone was left hacking in their dust. Even the croatoans seemed to back off a little, as if both sides were exhausted. Groups formed slowly; Dean, Cas, Bobby, Chuck, anyone left that they could round up got scrounged out and shoved in camp. It wasn’t Dean who had done the shoving, of course. Bobby had taken care of that. That time had, after all, had been one where Dean operated on a very in-normal and drunk- off- his- ass basis. He had staggered through the weeks in a haze. Days would pass without anyone getting a single word out of him. The only person he was willing to let himself near was Cas, and that was only for the ex- angel to check in and let others make sure he hadn’t drowned himself in a bathtub in the midst of a drunken stupor or some such nonsense.

These check- ups became so frequent as Dean’s condition worsened that Cas had given up and moved into the same cabin as his friend. Dean himself may very well have not even noticed. As long as he consented to a daily grunt in affirmation that he was not, in fact, lying cold and stiff in a puddle of his own body fluid, he was left alone in a world consisting of grief and whiskey. This being said, Dean lacked the ability to notice the broken way Castiel walked, the vagueness of his expression, the slow darkening of his once- stark gaze. Dean had forgotten that he hadn’t been the only one suffering from loss. Cas was just a bird of prey, who had been prepped for war before promptly getting its wings ripped off and told it had nowhere to fly to, had it even been able to fly in the first place. Subsequently, some days camp members would knock on the door and find the fallen angel just as drunk as Dean was.

As time crawled by, Dean began to pull himself together, as he inevitably would. 

Being overcome by bouts of grief and lethargy was not a new experience to him. 

In a way, it was easier getting his act together in the apocalypse than it would’ve under normal circumstances. In the chaos, there were missions to undergo, supply runs to take over, reconstruction of cabins to oversee. There was no time for sitting around and realizing that his brother-slash-right hand man was not only gone, but possessed by satan, and that one of his only sources of help had flown the coop and were more concerned with their own skins than helping the humans. Not to mention that the only one of them that opted to help was slogging through each day as if he had four tons of bricks strapped to his ass. Dean had not yet come to the realization that Cas, too, was mourning. And Cas was too secluded in himself to confess this. It was as if Dean’s process of re- emerging from his state was proportional to Cas’s moral downfall. And, as stated, the apocalypse was no time to reflect. There were missions to undergo. Supply runs to take care of.

That wasn’t to say that Cas was gone, however. On occasion, he was almost himself again. Some nights he was almost okay. On a cold night, February- ish, Cas was so close to before that Dean could even pretend that he saw the life in his eyes again.

Both of them were a little drunk, finishing off the last of the booze from Dean’s old stash to celebrate a new start for him, and the finished refurbishment of their cabin (now complete with working electricity, though they couldn’t say the same for running water. Unfortunately for now, the inhabitants of the Base were going to have to familiarize themselves with each other’s bathroom habits. And in the woods, no less.). It was snowing out, so everyone was staying in their respective cabins, in the heat and comfort of one another, fireplaces, if that’s what they had. Books and radios. Whatever they might have carried with themselves during this hell.

Cas and Dean were in front of their fire, sprawled out side by side on their duvet-turned-couch that decorated their poor excuse for a living room. The liquor made everything blurry, and they were laughing to themselves about something or another. Nothing seemed quite real. It was almost as if it was before everything happened, and it was funny that they were squatting in a patched up, rickety abandoned house. As if they were just using the place for a night, for a case, a run from that week’s demon. As if Sam would show up before too long, Macbook in tow and shooting the pair a look of half- amused irritation. ‘Like an old married couple,’ he’d scoff, to quote one occasion, before flopping down on the other side of Dean and turning the TV on louder.

The fuzziness in their heads had made boundaries unnecessary, stretched out and probably too close, staring at the flames with Cas’s left foot thrown over Dean’s right ankle. They were sharing a bottle of beer between the two of them, and the fire was changing shapes with the draft blowing in from outside.

The two had reached a break in the conversation, a not too uncomfortable silence. Dean ran a finger over the glass of the bottle, letting the condensation gather against his skin and run, tear- like, down the curve of his thumb. Electricity had meant they’d been able to power the old mini-fridge they’d found last week, and both had been equally excited at the prospect of cold beer as opposed to the warm ones that were the result of their previous camp atmosphere. He flicked a glance over to Cas, whose head was angled away from him, the firelight illuminating the hollows of his eyes. Cas had dressed in a loose- fitting shirt, the collar frayed and torn and falling half- heartedly around his shoulders. It was one of the few moments where Dean realized how dejected his friend looked, and it made a shudder of guilt scrape down his spine.

“So,” he began, lifting the beer to his lips, feigning bemusement and willing his uneasy observation to go away. “Cas. How’s humanity treating ya? Should’ve asked earlier.”

“Mm,” Came Cas’s answering murmur. He let his head fall fall back, and he turned toward Dean with a smile. “I’m not going to lie to you, Dean. I am not finding it... a pleasurable experience.”

Dean laughed aloud. “Really.”

“Yes, really. Especially this...,” he fluttered his hands lightly for emphasis, “rather constant task of relieving oneself. So many times per day.” He regarded Dean with a very earnest expression. “If one were to stop eating and drinking altogether, would that need disappear?”

“Well, I dunno.” Dean answered. “But I expressly forbid you to go on a hunger strike. I’ll tell you, buddy, of one of the many inconveniences of being human during the apocalypse, bathroom breaks are easily the least of your problems. And- apocalypse or no apocalypse, this one isn’t going away. Gettin’ down and dirty with the rest of us, Cas. It ain’t pretty, but it’s human.”

Cas let his head fall back once more, screwing his face up again to conjure an expression that almost made Dean laugh a second time. He found himself noting that he should’ve spent more time around Cas during his vacation on Island of the Invalids. Before, drunkenness had given him darkness in the head and a swimming feeling in the stomach, only bearable through the numbness that came along with it. With Cas, he’d been able to laugh for what felt like the first time in forever.

“Humans are disgusting,” Cas declared.

Dean scoffed. “On behalf of the human race, I thank you.”

“You must admit, angels live a much cleaner way. Much cleaner beings, comparatively,” Castiel said, in a slightly slurred, lecturing tone. “Human bodies are such... primitive structures. That’s not to say they aren’t good at serving their purpose, but. An angel injures themselves, and its an instant, seamless fix. Humans, there’s all this...,” he nodded. “Bleeding. Knitting of skin. There’s the defecating and urinating, the sex, sweating and crying. Humans are dirty creatures, and I am not yet used to it.”

Closing his eyes, Dean turned this over in his head. On one hand, he could see where Cas was coming from. All the sweating and et cetera. On the other, he found himself thinking of the things he took for granted, stuff angels thought was nothing but ‘hairless ape’ shit. Sex, of course. But also food. Sleep. God, nothing was better than sleeping on a lame- ass day.

“Tell you what, Cas,” Dean said decisively. “If you got turned human during any other time than this, I’d bet you’d hardly even mind.”

At this, Cas scoffed. “I would hardly mind a complete change of body and mindset? Going from virtually invincible to... this? Yes, Dean. I would mind.”

As if he hadn’t even heard his friend, Dean continued dreamily. “You know where I’d take you? Somewhere warm. Beachy. California. In the summer. Do angels swim?”

“Not... generally.”

“You’ve never been swimming?”

“No, Dean, I haven’t.” Castiel still sounded peevish over Dean’s earlier comment. Dean turned to face him, and with a smirk, handed over the beer bottle. Cas took it without meeting Dean’s eyes, their fingers brushing awkwardly as he took the bottle without relinquishing his annoyance.

“Well, then. When this all plays out, that’s where we’ll go. California. I’m sick of rain and all this cold.” The camp was a misty wasteland. The only time they got any proper sun was in the middle of the day, and every other time after that was more than likely overcast and grey. Dean hadn’t realized how much he had missed color until he thought about it- but the first color he’d see if he poked his head out of camp would be the gory, green- red- blue of Croatoan flesh. The oranges and purples of the beach were a hell of a lot farther away.

He tipped the bottle back, drinking deep and relishing the fantasy. 

"Yeah, man," he went on, with an uncoordinated swipe of his hand. "We'll hop into the Impala, snag some beer and sandwiches, get there in a day or two."

Cas was watching him now, his eyes going soft, shifting his head to the side as Dean rambled on, saying, "Yeah, yeah, get there and throw some blankets down, man, under a dock or something- hippies live on the beach for years like that, not even kidding, the bastards- get ourselves a nice satellite radio and some fishing gear, listen to some damn Bruce Springsteen on the beach, Cas. God."

Dean winked at him and finished the beer in his hand, likely without realizing it. Cas leaned forward and picked at the fire, turning his head to hide the slight smile that had creeped up on him. Despite the effort, Dean caught it, and grinned to himself, pulling his arms behind his head and giving Cas a slight shove with his foot in the process.

"And I'll teach you to swim, dude. And fish. I know how bad you suck at it."

"I don't-,"

"And wait until you see the sunset, man. Man, it is nothing like the shit here. Sun hits the water- boom. Whole world is orange. Or red. Purpley, sometimes. And the storms arent all just mist like they are here. They're, like, storm storms. All clouds and wind and lightning... God, just fantastic..,"  
Cas leaned back, watching Dean close his eyes, reveling in the memories, bruising stormclouds chasing the sun behind his eyelids. He smiled again, small, deciding against telling him that he'd seen it all.

Cas had seen the sunset, on the water, he'd looked down at it and seen the way it played with the waves when Moses was parting them. The storms, too- he'd witnessed their rage when they were tossing the Ark across the sea, unbridled and nothing like Dean will ever see. He'd seen the sun set when it was unhindered by modern pollution and waste, natural and awesome.

The fire spat and crackled and Cas thought of how he'd trade it all to be there on the beach now, him and Dean, watching the sun set fire to the sky, chemicals and all.

**Author's Note:**

> More endverse blurbing  
> Someone send these babies some beach


End file.
